


Randomness Is Key

by Angela_Jahnel



Category: None - Fandom
Genre: Blood and Gore, Blood and Torture, Death, Graphic Violence, Knives, Mild Language, Murder, One Shot, Serial Killers, Torture, stab wounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2019-07-14 04:27:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16032968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angela_Jahnel/pseuds/Angela_Jahnel
Summary: A day in the life of a serial killer.





	Randomness Is Key

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally written for a contest on writerscafe.org back in 2011. If I remember correctly, the requirements were: It must be about a serial killer, it must have graphic depictions of violence, gore, and torture. I think I delivered pretty well, which earned me an honorable mention. I've updated the story a bit, but it's essentially the same as when I wrote it as Lovely Lyla all those years ago.

I gaze at my reflection in the bathroom mirror while I carefully shave my head. I am obsessive about hair. I shave my head daily, whether it needs it or not. Actually, I shave my entire body. Thankfully, I’m not a very hairy man to begin with, and my hair is light blond and very fine. Once my head is shaved to my satisfaction, I grab the tweezers and move on the thin, blond hairs of my eyebrows. After years of plucking, they don’t grow in very well anymore, which makes this easier. I move on to my eyelashes next. I told you I was obsessive about hair. My cubicle-dwelling coworkers think I have an irrational fear of hair. A few of them think I have Alopecia, an immune system disorder that makes your hair fall out. I let them think what they want. I’m not afraid of hair, I just don’t want it to incriminate me.

My day job does nothing for me except pay the bills. It’s boring, repetitive work that drives me insane, so I have to find something to amuse me in my free time. When I’m not at work, I go out on the hunt. I have no specific ‘type’ that I’m attracted to. Men or women. Blondes, brunettes, redheads, they’re all the same to me. Age doesn’t matter either, but I draw the line at children. Believe it or not, I actually do have a few morals. The local police haven’t thought up an interesting name for me yet. You know, like the Night Stalker. The barest hint of a smile quirks the corners of my mouth at that thought. The reason I don’t have a name is because my crimes are so random, my victims so unrelated. The police don’t realize the crimes were committed by the same person. 

#####

The work day drudgery is finally over, so I decide to head to the park. It’s a pleasant Fall day. Comfortably warm during the day, but cool at night. The days are already getting much shorter, so I don’t have much time left. When it gets cold and dark, most people huddle in their homes and spend less time outdoors. I really don’t like breaking and entering, it complicates things. Burglar alarms, over-protective dogs, gun-toting home owners. Those sorts of things can really ruin your day. 

I relax on a park bench, soaking up the warmth of the sun, and let my mind drift. I tend to go into an almost meditative state while looking for my next victim. I figure the universe just sort of chooses someone for me and places them in my path. What I do with that person is up to me. My eyes slide across the park grounds, hidden behind my sunglasses, and I spot a few potential targets. None of them feel right, so my eyes keep moving. A middle aged blond jogs toward me, making the circuit around the park on the one mile pathway. I admire the excellent shape he’s in. He looks strong. Strong people can be a challenge, but I do so love a challenge. 

The man jogs past while I pretend to play a game on my phone. Oh yes, I like this one. The universe has made its decision. I get up and follow behind him at a leisurely pace. When I come to a more heavily wooded area, I step off the path and ready myself. I make sure my gloves are secure. The nice thing about the cooler weather is no one questions me about wearing hand protection. That sort of thing really stands out on a hot Summer day. I’ve learned to wear flesh-colored latex gloves in the Summertime. I pull a small vial out of a pocket and a handkerchief out of another. My special little cocktail is part chloroform and a few other chemicals to enhance its potency. A small amount on a rag, held to a person’s mouth and nose, makes them drowsy and act a bit drunk for a while. I don’t want to knock the guy out. Dragging a body is hard work and draws unwanted attention. I just want him a little tipsy for a bit. People don’t usually pay attention if you are helping a ‘drunk’ friend get home safely after having a few beers. Drinking and driving is dangerous. That’s how people get killed. I’m doing my civic duty by driving my friend home. I’m such a nice guy.

The man has made the circuit around the park again and is heading back my way. He doesn’t seem to notice my hiding spot among the trees. As soon as he jogs past my position, I quickly step out and clap my hand over his mouth and nose, dragging him back into the trees with me. He tries to fight, tries to call for help, but as soon as he sucks in a breath, he inhales the drugs. He struggles for a moment, then his body starts to relax against mine. I hold him close and tell him it will be all right. I’m a liar, but I can live with that.

By now, I’m sure you’re thinking I’m some sort of perverted rapist. I’ll have you know I never, ever rape my victims. Condoms can break and leave behind incriminating DNA. I’m not stupid. Besides, I’m a bit of a germophobe. These people could have horrible diseases that I don’t know about, or wish to acquire. I don’t like surprises. Besides, I’m not in it for the sexual thrill. I just like the power. It is a truly wondrous feeling to hold someone’s life in your hands, to have them beg for mercy, then slowly, painfully take that life away.

#####

I enjoy the pleasant drive through this lonely stretch of woods. The leaves really are quite beautiful this time of year. It’s too bad my ‘drunk friend’ isn’t awake to enjoy the scenery. I think he’d really like it. The red, orange, and gold leaves flutter past the windshield and I marvel that there can be such beauty in death. Fall has always been my favorite season, followed closely by Winter. You haven’t lived until you’ve seen pristine, white snow speckled with fresh blood. Absolutely stunning!

I have several areas scoped out in advance for the times I feel the urge to hunt. I never use the same spot twice. Lonely forests, rest stops, abandoned houses. Hell, I even killed a guy in an old fallout shelter one time. You have to keep changing things around. It keeps the police on their toes. Randomness is key. 

I pull over at a nice, isolated spot and help my new friend out of the car. I had to dose him a few more times during the drive because he kept waking up. He’s a tough bastard. It’s getting dark, so I leave the headlights on as I help the man out of the car. He grins like a loon and giggles as I help him sit down on the leaf-strewn ground. The chemicals sometimes affect people in unusual ways. Some get sleepy, some get happy. I guess it really is like being drunk. He lays back in the leaves with a contented sigh, staring up into the fluttering leaves. This poor guy has no idea what’s in store for him. Be happy while you can, my man. 

#####

The jogger comes to his senses after I cut off his left nipple. I guess ‘Comes to his senses’ is an understatement. ‘Screaming his head off and straining at his bonds’ would be a better description. I watch as he frantically looks around, trying to figure out what’s going on and searching for an escape route. He sees his wrists, tied with rope and staked to the ground. His legs have a similar treatment, though he can’t twist his head far enough to see them. More ropes secure his thighs and chest. The goosebumps that break out all over his body make him aware that he’s naked, completely exposed to the chilly Autumn air.

“What the hell? Where am I?,” he asks, a whining note creeping into his voice.

I sigh, causing my breath to fog out in front of me. They always ask the same questions. “Where am I? Why are you doing this? Who are you?” Always the same unimaginative questions. 

“You’re out in the woods where no one can hear you, I’m doing this because I can, and my name is Death.”

The man starts to cry as I unroll my tool kit. He can see all the sharp, shiny tools of terror, all the strange, mysterious objects. Now it’s a full-on ugly cry. Fat tears are squeezing out of the corners of his eyes, and thick ropes of snot are dribbling everywhere. There’s even a few snot bubbles as he begs, cries, and whines. Jeez buddy, grow a pair. I haven’t even started yet. 

“What’s your name?” I calmly ask. I could have checked his wallet, but this is part of the game.

“Eric Johnson,” the man replies, stifling a sob.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Johnson. Do you have a family?” I ask as I carefully select a tool.

“Y-yes. I have a wife, Melissa, and two sons, Jesse and James. The boys are two and four,” he babbles in terror.

I raise an eyebrow at that bit of information. “You actually named your kids Jesse and James? Jesse Johnson and James Johnson?” I asked the man, unable to believe my ears. 

“Yeah, I’m a fan of Western history, outlaws, that sort of thing,” he replies, oblivious to my irritation.

“You named your kids after the same person. They basically each have half a name. You could have at least named one Jesse James and named the other kid Frank, after Jesse’s brother.” I shake my head in exasperation. “You know, your kids will most likely be bullied because you decided to give them silly names. I’m glad I chose you. You’re an idiot and deserve to die,” I state coldly as I lean over Mr. Johnson with my sharp little tools. I can be such a judgmental bastard sometimes.

Mr. Johnson’s eyes go wide and he starts repeating, “No! No! No!”, in an increasingly higher pitch. It turns out Mr. Johnson is a mezzo-soprano. 

I start by making tiny little cuts in the sensitive areas of his body. I want him to suffer, but not bleed to death, so I’m very careful. I force his clenched fist open, mindful of his fingernails. I’m wearing surgical gloves, but I still don’t want him to scratch me and leave evidence under his nails.

“Looks like you get regular manicures, Mr. Johnson. You must have a nice job,” I casually state as I slice the web of skin between each finger. The only response is a scream of agony. How rude. He could at least have the decency to join in the conversation. 

I work my way up his arms, making delicate little cuts on the tender skin inside the elbow, then the underarm, then down along the rib cage. I decide to peel a few thin strips of skin off, just to see how easily it comes off. I might decide to skin my next victim if it isn’t too difficult. I enjoy learning new things. 

A few slaps bring Mr. Johnson around again. “Come on, man, you’ve got to be tougher than that. I figured a big, strapping fellow like you would have a higher pain threshold,” I chide him. I only get a groggy moan in response as I shift position and begin working on his lower extremities. I cut the tender skin between his toes and watch him jerk against his bonds. I work my way to the back side of each knee, then the sensitive inner thighs and groin area.

Hmmm….I should have tied down his waist as well. He has too much freedom of movement. If I try to cut too much in the groin area, he could end up causing me to slice a major artery by accident. Damn. I really wanted to try out those new medical syringe needles on his testicles, and I found that wonderful little glass rod that I planned to insert into his penis, then break the glass. Oh well, live and learn. Those little experiments will just have to wait until next time.

I move up toward Mr. Johnson’s face and decide to get a bit more physical. I deftly slice off the left ear, then manage to quickly remove the right ear when he jerks his head away. His teeth are clenched so tightly, I’m surprised they haven’t splintered from the strain. I hold his head steady and drag the knife down the left cheek, across the upper lip, where I feel the knife grate against his front teeth, then up the right cheek. I really need to find a way to secure my victim’s head better next time because his thrashing is making my work challenging. Maybe a strap across the forehead would work.

I wait for Mr. Johnson’s breathing to calm down a bit then quickly slice down the right cheek, across the lower teeth and finish up on the left cheek. Mr. Johnson is struggling harder now as he chokes on the blood filling his mouth. I turn his head to the side so he doesn’t drown in his own blood. I’m not without mercy. As soon as he can breathe safely, I reach down, grasp the bits of skin still attaching both cheeks and pull sharply upward. The skin peels off his face and he screams almost high enough to shatter glass. Blood gushes from the ghastly wound and I stare in fascination at Mr. Johnson’s exposed teeth, gleaming wetly in the beams of my headlights. He slumps to the ground in a dead faint. I suppose I should finish this up. It’s getting late and I’m starting to feel a bit chilly. I really need a hot shower, then maybe I’ll curl up in my chair with a cup of cocoa and a book.

Pausing to scrutinize my handiwork, I decide to cut off his eye lids to complete the look of a death’s head. I’m such an artist. Mr. Johnson barely stirs, so I know his body is starting to shut down from the pain and blood loss. I quickly carve a local gang symbol into his exposed chest, just to confuse the police, then sit back and examine my artwork. How to finish him? 

I remember reading a book ages ago about a torture where you pull someone’s lungs out of their chest. I decide to give it a try. If it doesn’t work, then who cares? Mr. Johnson will be dead either way. 

My fingers feel for the edge of his ribs on the lower right side, then I slide a knife under the skin and slice upwards following the edge of the rib cage. Mr. Johnson jerks awake and begins to scream and thrash, so I hurry to finish the cut along the other side. The flap of skin rolls downward a bit, exposing organs and a section of shiny intestine. As soon as Mr. Johnson can draw breath again, he starts to scream, and scream, and scream. He’s starting to give me a headache. So inconsiderate. I reach through the flap of freshly-cut skin with both hands and feel up under the rib cage. I can feel the lungs pushing against my fingers as they inflate for a fresh scream, then deflate as Mr. Johnson runs out of breath. He breathes in for a new scream and I grab both of his lungs and jerk downward and out. His scream is cut short and he starts gasping like a fish out of water. I observe the quickly drying lungs hanging outside of his chest cavity. They look like some sort of strange fruit growing from his chest. Fascinating! 

I leave Mr. Johnson there to suffocate as I clean up, then stow my gear and head back home. It’s been an interesting night.

#####

It took a few weeks for my blood-lust to build up again. I decided to pick up a brunette at Murphy’s bar. She’s not much of a looker, but she lives alone and she’s a kinky one. Her name is Suzette and she’s into BDSM, you know, whips and chains and all that. One night stands and the bondage lifestyle really aren’t a good combination. You have to trust your Dom and I’m a total stranger. I certainly wouldn’t trust me. 

Suzette is already a bit tipsy and we’re heading to her place for a good time, well at least I’m going to have a good time. She’s making this so easy for me. I don’t even have to drug her. She’s coming along willingly, taking me to her house, and letting me tie her up. What more could a guy ask for? Oh yeah, then I get to torture her. 

It’s just not a good idea to practice kinky sex with strangers. Suzette might enjoy ball gags, nipple clamps and having her ass whipped with a belt, but I bet she changes her tune once I get the knives out. Some folks are into that sort of thing, so she might surprise me. I wonder how high her pain tolerance is? Suzette is anticipating some great sex, but the poor woman just doesn’t realize how intense our ‘session’ will actually be. No sex, just pain and humiliation. 

I’m proud that I even managed to acquire a pear of anguish. It’s a Medieval torture device that you insert into the orifice of your choice, then crank it open. It even has nasty little spikes on it! I’m so excited to see it in action. This could be quite an interesting night.

Suzette holds my arm to steady herself as we walk up the stairs to her house. Hopefully, her neighbors are used to hearing screams coming from her house late at night. She said she liked ball gags, so that should help keep the noise down. I let my mind wander, as she unlocks the door, fantasizing about all the things I will do to her and the new techniques I may learn. Life is all about learning and growing. 

I smile smugly, knowing the police will never connect this murder to all the others. Different sex, hair color, social status, age, and different style of death. The police will probably just think it was a kinky sex game that went horribly wrong.

Randomness is key.


End file.
